


Invidia

by emmadelosnardos



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all conscience, there was no good reason that Jedediah Foster should despise Major Clayton McBurney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invidia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).



> So, this was inspired by a few press releases for Mercy Street's second season that mentioned that the hospital is getting a new Chief. A few google image searches of the actor in the role of Major Clayton McBurney were enough to suggest that this new man might be a problem for Jedediah Foster.
> 
> For ultrahotpink, who wrote the first fic to mention Major McBurney (to my knowledge), "Good as New."

In all conscience, there was no good reason that Jedediah Foster should despise Major Clayton McBurney.

Jed’s initial impression of McBurney had been of a young and energetic, yet thoughtful and pragmatic, altogether likeable young man. The new hospital chief was, in every way, a step up on his predecessor: where Summers had been absent-minded and just plain absent, McBurney was nothing if not present on the wards of Mansion House: here attending at a surgery, there instructing the orderlies on how to bandage a wound, now mediating between Nurse Hastings and the nuns, or consulting with Jed on the latest European surgical techniques. Whereas Summers had been largely uninterested in improving conditions on the wards, in the storeroom, or in his own doctors’ practices, McBurney was nothing if not an ardent reformer and inventor. It was he who, with Nurse Mary’s assistance, had reorganized the physical layout of the wards so that the men were admitted not to the first ward with an available bed, but rather to the ward that housed other soldiers with similar conditions. Rather than allowing orderlies to float among wards according to the needs and the whims of the doctors and nurses, the orderlies and other untrained personnel were instead grouped by ward, and thus gained greater familiarity with the conditions they were to treat, while the nurses and doctors continued to move freely amongst the patients with greatest need. Doctor McBurney also allowed Hale to continue to do what he did best – amputate limbs, extract buckshot, excise wounds – while reserving the more complicated head and trauma cases for Jed’s care.

Jed had to admit that these were the practices of an enlightened, modern hospital, rather than the makeshift place that Mansion House had been under the administration of Doctor Summers. And, what’s more, the new hospital chief had been tactful and diplomatic in implementing his reforms, taking care to acknowledge the talents and capabilities of even the least skilled members of the hospital staff, while also showing humility and patience while working to persuade Foster and Hale of these new methods of practice. Jed did not even envy the man his position, as Jed had never lied when he had told Summers that he would rather practice medicine and conduct his research than take on administrative tasks, and he had understood that the role of hospital chief would naturally go to a career Army doctor like Major McBurney. He was just grateful that, for once, the Army had chosen well in its assignment, and it did not even bother him that McBurney was, at the least, a good ten years younger than he was. At forty-one, he could no longer consider himself a rising star of medicine, and he could now admit, without rancor, that someone like McBurney could do a better job than he would have at running Mansion House.

No, Jed’s dislike of McBurney had nothing to do with him as a doctor or as a hospital administrator, but rather on the effect that McBurney’s arrival had had on Nurse Mary.

He could not identify exactly when the Head Nurse had stopped consulting, quite as frequently as she had before, the Executive Officer at Mansion House. Nor could he say when McBurney’s little speeches to Jed had begun to include the phrases, “Nurse Phinney says,” and “I asked Nurse Mary,” and “Miss Phinney and I decided to—” He had asked McBurney once, sarcastically, if he had need any longer for an executive officer, or if he could expect Nurse Phinney to be making most of the decisions in the future. McBurney had looked sharply at him, startled, before smiling in that open way of his and reassuring him of how very fortunate Mansion House was to have a physician of his caliber, with his Continental training, at their disposal. After their exchange McBurney had not mentioned Nurse Phinney in that casual way again, only alluding to her in Jed’s presence when a specific nursing issue arose, and tactfully took care to consult more frequently with Jed.

But it was McBurney’s frequent allusions to Nurse Mary that revealed to Jed that the two of them must have had regular – and private – conversations regarding the workings of Mansion House, for it was no longer Jed whom Mary sought out to complain to about Hale, it was no longer Jed that Mary went to with a question about a specific procedure, or a staffing issue. He could only assume that she had brought up these problems directly with the chief medical officer, as she had been unable to do when Summers was in command of the hospital. And while Jed knew that it was not exactly right that he and Mary and had formed a cabal of sorts while Summers had been pickled to the gills and distracted by his violin, even so he resented her direct appeal to the new hospital chief, and her seeming demotion of him to colleague rather than partner in their work.

But still she was courteous to him, still she smiled at him before a difficult surgery, still she brought him a clean towel when he washed his hands, and brewed him his tea when they were working late into the night. Still she told him stories of Massachusetts when she met him on the veranda in the mornings, and offered to sew on his buttons when she noticed that one had gone missing. Mary was as considerate to him as she had always been, and yet he sensed a greater formality in her manner towards him, a drawing back of her innermost self even as she continued to perform the actions of a devoted friend. He could only imagine that it was McBurney with whom she now shared her impressions of nursing, of the hospital, of the effect a patient’s death had had on her, of her opinions on slavery and emancipation (topics on which they had never come to any agreement), of her confidence in Samuel and her fear for Aurelia. For it was clear that she no longer looked to Jed to guide her on the wards; the apprentice had obtained mastery of her domain and apparently had no need of her former tutor. And so it was almost with relief when he was assigned Miss Green to assist him on a delicate surgery and not Mary – Mary, who had no need now of his instruction, no need now of his teasing manner towards her, his admonitions, his moral arguments, his admiration.

And still he did not entirely dislike McBurney, still he could attribute these changes in Mary’s manner to him to the expected evolution of the social life of a hospital, as had happened at his own hospital in Baltimore. One month there had been a particular nurse with whom he wanted to work, the next month it had been another. It did not matter that the nurses had all been men before the War, and now they were mostly women; it was the same familiar pattern, this subtle or brutal shifting of alliances within the hospital, this falling out with one colleague only to fall in with another. He didn’t even mind Hale as much as he once had, now that Hale was confined to his butchery and Jed’s own role was more clearly delineated. And Nurse Hastings no longer seemed the insufferable cheat she had once seemed, but rather he could now respect the knowledge and experience she brought to her work. So it should not have surprised him that his relations with Mary Phinney, too, would continue to change as the war progressed and as the hospital settled into a different pattern under McBurney’s administration.

Jed could trace back his dislike to McBurney to one specific moment, several months into his tenure at Mansion House, when the Army had arranged a musical evening at the hospital. The Greens’ old grand piano, long stored away with their precious Indian artifacts, was moved back into the hotel and tuned one warm afternoon by a blind old man who picked out Mozart dances for show. Mrs. Green and her daughters worked all the next day to bedeck the main hall with ribbons and bunting in neutral red-white-and-blue, and the orderlies had brought in enough chairs for the staff and able-bodied patients to fill the hall later that night. The Army sent two singers, operatically trained, a soprano and a baritone, and a pianist to accompany them.

All of these preparations Jed scarcely noticed, so busy was he investigating a string of cases of soldiers’ heart; composing a manuscript regarding the body’s response to and tolerance of morphine; training a promising medical cadet from Philadelphia; and writing once again to Eliza’s lawyer to contest the sum, excessively high in his opinion, that she had demanded in their divorce settlement. It was not until his afternoon rounds, at half-past three, when Miss Green had asked him if he intended to attend the recital that evening.

There was nothing urgent to do on the wards. His patients were resting, admissions were down, the orderlies and nurses had everything under control. Jed was accustomed to dining late, and could not in good conscience object to an evening of recreation, and so he told Nurse Green that he would be there at six o’clock when the recital began.

But one of the nuns had called him to look at a gangrenous wound at a quarter to six, and he arrived downstairs with only a few minutes to spare before the recital began. He took one of the few remaining seats, at the back of a row near the stairs, and looked around to get his bearings. Chairs were arranged in a half-circle around the piano and the singers; from his position he looked across and could see, in the front row of the opposite side, Nurse Phinney sitting with Doctor McBurney. Her hair was arranged in some fancy, whimsical creation that he could not have named for the life of him; her dress was a dark, emerald green, in silk or mercerized cotton, her white lace collar larger and more intricate than he had seen her wear before. In her gloved hands she held a fan, which she lifted to her face and flipped open, fanning herself lightly. As Miss Hastings called everyone to attention, McBurney leaned close to Mary, his hand over his mouth, and whispered something in her ear. Through the dying murmur of the crowd he could hear her laughter, girlish and joyful, and wished daggers upon McBurney and his smug face.

He hated McBurney in that instant as he had never hated a man before, and he was surprised by the force of his jealousy. How long and how deeply must he have loved Mary, then, to feel such resentment at this man who now held her affection? Until that instant he had not even admitted to himself that he had loved her. Seeing her sitting there in that green dress, with McBurney’s knee brushing against hers, he was overcome by the clarity of his revelation. _He_ wished to have the place of honor at her side; _he_ wanted to whisper to her and make her laugh, as he once had done; _he_ wanted to be the one for whom she wore such finery and at whom she glanced over her fan. He wanted all of this, and more, and was suddenly aware, too, of why he had consented so readily to Eliza’s request for a divorce, and decided then that he would write again to her attorney and tell him that he accepted the settlement as it was. Anything to be rid of the weight of his old marriage! – anything to be able to approach Mary freely, as a prospective suitor and not as a colleague or old married man! Then he felt despair and self-loathing; he was too late, he was always too late to see what was right before his eyes, and now Mary seemed to have forgotten her early days at Mansion House, when Jed was her only true friend, and had put aside his friendship for that of another. Now he remembered the gray in his hair and in his beard and compared himself to McBurney, who besides being much closer in age to Mary was also a far more handsome and polished man, less impulsive and melancholic than Jed, gentler and more tactful in his relations with others. Was it any wonder, then, that Mary would choose to sit with such a man and not with him? Was it any wonder that he now hated McBurney with a passion, because of his goodness and his comeliness and all the features that had once seemed so reasonable to him?

All these things he thought in the course of a few minutes, and then the recital began.

The music that night was surprisingly good, of a caliber that Jed had not heard in a long time, perhaps not since he had been in Europe and had attended such recitals frequently. There was quite a bit of Schumann, and Schubert, and his attention was caught by the baritone’s rendition of “ _Du bist wie eine Blume_ ”. How ridiculous he would feel, were he ever to compare Mary to a flower, and yet Schumann had dared as much in his music, and in those deep German tones of the singer the sentiment felt true rather than hackneyed. He looked up to watch Mary, to see if she was as touched by the music as he imagined she would be. To his surprise, she looked back at him, across the room, and nodded at him in acknowledgement. The song ended, and McBurney turned to say something to Mary; she bent her head closer to his and pointed out something on the program to him.

At that moment someone touched Jed’s shoulder; it was Matron Brannan, whispering to him to come back to attend to the gangrenous patient; the case was hopeless, she said, but the man was quite agitated and needed the application of chloroform or morphine to calm him down.

It was straightforward work to dose the dying man with morphine, and could have been done by the matron herself if hospital protocol did not require a doctor to administer such injections. Even the sight of the needle had not the draw it once had on Jed; all the prior magic had gone out of Wood’s syringe, rendering it mere metal and glass again, its former promise dulled by time. Instead, Jed was aware of the hunger in his stomach and, once the procedure was finished, he made his way to Mary’s pantry, where she or Samuel would leave a cold supper for the doctors each evening. The music of the recital could still be heard in the other hall, and Jed thought he recognized some Schubert again.

He opened the door of the pantry and got the second surprise of the evening: Nurse Mary was sitting on the low stool, her wet face illuminated by the lantern at her side. She had clearly been crying, and turned her head away from Jed as he entered. He quickly made to step out again, excusing himself, but then she stopped him. “I’m sorry,” she said, though he felt that he should be the one apologizing. “I was overcome by the music. You came for your supper, didn’t you?” He nodded and came inside the small closet, shutting the door behind him.

“What happened?” he asked with concern, kneeling at her side and taking her hands in his. She moved as if to pull her hands away, but then seemed to change her mind and let him clasp her wrists lightly. “Are you well?”

Mary shook her head and began to cry softly, keening and pulling her hands away from his to cover her face again. He hesitated before placing a hand on her shoulder. She leaned forward suddenly, letting him pull her into his arms and rock her against him. How sweet it was, thus, to hold her and stroke her hair! How he wished he knew what was wrong, so that he might fix it! He was overcome by the close succession of events that evening – his growing hatred for McBurney, the revelation of his love for Mary, this unexpected encounter in the pantry with the very woman who was so often on his mind – and stilled his rampant thoughts by listening to Mary’s heavy breaths, noticing the weight of her head on his shoulder, the feel of her arms around his neck.

“Tell me what is wrong,” he said, when they had sat together like that for some time and her sobs came at less frequent intervals.

“I can hardly say,” she answered, pulling back and looking him in the eyes. “It was the music – it’s never had that effect on me – I’m sorry.” She looked away then, ashamed. “It was Schubert’s _Schwanengesang_ – his Swan’s Song, you know.”

“Yes,” Jed said, reaching for her face, brushing away the tears that still fell down her cheeks. “Beautiful songs. His last ones.”

“It’s just –” Mary began, clasping his hand and holding it close to her chest, “—Gustav was so fond of Schubert, and the _Ständchen_ was a favorite —” her voice broke, and she began to cry again.

This time he did not hesitate to draw her close into his arms. “Oh Mary,” he said. “My dear Mary.” He tried to tell himself that there was nothing improper in their embrace, that he was merely one friend comforting another, that she was mourning another man, for Christ’s sake, and it meant nothing that she would let him hold her so. But how sweet it was to pretend, if only for a minute, that he was the one – the only one – who had a right to give her comfort. Despite himself, he asked her, “Didn’t McBurney see you leave?” He meant to say, _Why are you here alone?,_ but could not go so far.

She pulled back slightly and looked at him. “I did not want him with me,” she said, looking troubled. “I told him it was nothing, that he should let me go.”

Then it was as if she had woken from a reverie; she sat back from him, pushing his arms away, standing up and nearly knocking over the lantern as she did so.

“Is there something between you?” he asked, again chiding himself for his curiosity, wanting to hold her hand again and knowing he must not. He looked up at her instead, and hoped she would tell him the truth. She was agitated, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

“He has – that is, he wants –” she began, catching herself with her hand on one shelf and looking away from him. Was that another tear, then? Jed rose, stood before her, made her look at him. She let him take her hand again, let him brush away her tear, and said, quite plainly, “Clayton wants me to marry him.”

So that was how things stood. “But you are – you are still mourning your husband. And Schubert’s serenade made you think of him – Is that it?” he asked. He looked at her as tenderly as possible, hoping to convey his respect for her, hoping she would continue to confide in him.

“Yes – no – _no_ …” she said, her voice trailing off.

“The Major would make a good husband,” Jed said. “That is, if you want—”

She cut him off. “I am not in love with Clayton,” she said, shaking her head. Then she looked at him directly. “Jed, I – I cannot marry one man when I am in love with another.”

“Your husband must have been a very fine man,” was all he could think to say.

“I am not speaking of Gustav,” she said curtly.

Something in her tone reminded him of the time when he had told her she mustn’t grow so attached to her patients, and she had retorted that she could not help herself, her face alight with passion, her concern over-spilling its professional bounds. He had hoped she might speak so passionately of him, in his defense, or even in rebellion against him – how he loved to see her angry – but he had not seen such divine rage in many months. How he had missed her! Even now, when she was telling him she loved another – he loved her even in these moments, loved her confidences in the small confines of the pantry. But soon they must leave – someone would find them there – and she would be lost to him, finally lost forever. So it must be.

“May I ask who—” he started.

“Jed –” she began again, more firmly this time, as if she were shoring herself up for defeat. “I cannot marry Clayton because I am in love with you.” She exhaled deeply, wrenched her hand away from his, and reached for the door.

He put his hand over hers on the door-handle, preventing her from leaving. “Oh no you don’t!” he said. “You can’t tell me that and think I’m going to let you off so easily.”

“Let me go!” she cried, shooing him away, the tears rising again. “I’ve told you what you wanted to know – now leave me be in my embarrassment and my shame.” She looked as if she might kick him if he did not let her go.

He caught her chin in his hand, pulled her face towards him, looked her straight in the eyes. “What shame?” he asked her softly. And then, seeking her permission, “May I kiss you?” She looked almost frightened, but the tension had left her body; she was no longer the wild animal fighting the cage.

“You are married,” she whispered. “I don’t want – that is –”

“Mary,” he said firmly, “I would very much like to kiss you. Right now, before we leave this room and go back out into the hospital. And then I will tell you something you should know, and you can decide if we will forget this ever happened, or if you want—”

She nodded then, permission granted. He felt suddenly nervous; he wanted this to be right, he wanted to reassure her he was only asking for a kiss, to calm the frightened part of her. He put his hands on her shoulders, moved one to her neck. She was trembling, he saw, and her breaths came quickly. “Jedediah,” she said in a gasp, and then he kissed her gently, chastely. He drew her closer to him, caressing the dark plaits of her hair, and then pulled back to see her face. Her expression was one of wonder, of surprise, and then he was the one who was surprised, for she reached for him and kissed him back. She kissed him longer this time, her mouth lingering on his, her lips parting for an instant and then closing again as if she remembered the need for propriety. He had told her he would kiss her and then they would speak, but oh how warm she felt in his arms! Oh how delightful was her breath, her sweet round mouth, the soft glide of her tongue on his when she opened her mouth again and let him in! He kissed her ferociously now, knowing that this might be the only time she let him take such liberties. But then she took a step forward, and he stumbled backwards, knocking his elbow on the shelf, and he came to his senses.

“Mary,” he said, trying to look poised and failing utterly. “I must let you know – Eliza has left me – she is divorcing me now – the details are almost settled – will be settled by the end of the month.”

In the dim light he saw her drop her face into her hands, and her entire body shook as if she were sobbing. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were glowing, hopeful.

“You can’t know what that means to me,” she said at last.

“The same it means to me,” he said. “I love you, Mary Phinney.” They looked at each other for a long moment. “But I am still married. And when we open that door, you must be the Head Nurse, and I the Executive Officer, and that is how it must be until – until I receive final word of my release.”

She nodded. “I understand,” she whispered. “But – oh – thank you!”

“I think you must go now, first,” he said. “And I will stay here a while longer and finish my meal, lest anyone see us leave together.”

She left then, her skirts brushing past him as she left, and the cold mutton and stewed collards were the most delicious food he had eaten in years.

 


End file.
